Slowly through the silence the words come trickling back. Words you thought had forever flown from you and you would have to sweep the Porch one last time and then board it up. But there they are, confident visitors to your back door, so confident that they belong there, they don’t even appear hesitant at all. Or penitent for their absence.
They simply are.
You are almost afraid that any sudden movements would scare them away and they would scatter like squirrels or elves. But for all their willful and incomprehensible other-worldliness, they don’t scare that easily, either.
You could learn from such confidence, such belongingness.
They have presence, these waywords words returning home.
Confidence you could never have instilled in him yourself, you being so anxious and hesitant and trying-to-be-invisible-and-out-of-the-way. He walks with presence.
And your fidgeting, your duck-and-diving and feeling overwhelmed in the crowds, frustrate him.
His grace floods over his temper, though, when finally he, the child, teaches you, the parent: ‘You have to walk with presence. Then people will make way for you, not the other way around.’
So young. And he knows this thing you never learned.
And you know: If ever there were any doubt that you have a greater parent, a Father in heaven – in heart! – this is the evidence: that your child may be fathered and gently taught to walk with presence when you didn’t own such wisdom yourself.
He walks with presence.
And he teaches you to walk with presence, too. To trust more in The Presence – holiest of all! – that you walk in every day.
So you look at these present words, sitting so comfortably on your Porch, as if they belong there, and you smile. Because you recognize this: It is right.
And shoulders a little straighter, a little more confident, you welcome back the words, knowing they have come to the right place. They have come to play with you, to teach you … and you accept their confident gift.